Tunneling Blank
by lye tea
Summary: In an unjust world where hatred liked to roam, he saw a righteous point in using her. /Dimande x Black Lady/


**Tunneling Blank**

Continents collide

And crash into worlds  
and in the place between these worlds

There were the girls  
who ate themselves, fed on raw  
fed on hate and never forgave.

These were the girls who liked to kill  
those already dead, those already lost their will  
because of steel in these girls' hearts  
because there is no such thing as mercy.

They break the men.

And shatter worlds  
and still believe

That they are far, just, and true.

So when the continents are tossed and turned  
they recite: _now we win_.

-

They were fitted together in pieces centuries apart.

**i. **

Her eyes never left the window. They strained to see through the sheets of rain and swirling dust (even in cleansing rituals, Tokyo was a depressing holder of trash). Her hands gripped tightly at the windowsill, hot breath filming over the glass.

She's not as stupid and blind as they make her to be. He knew that (had always known that) and in some small fraction of him, he thought she just _might_ be even more perfect than her mother.

And so, he broke her of her binds (the hair that never ceased, running across fields and rivers)

—pooled together into a messy morass of loss and black—

"Black Lady," he said.

Her name resonated throughout caverns, a sullen glance, a worried (biting lip). Nervous, neurotic, she made him careless. Impudent, _imprudent_: he wanted to gather her neck and choke. And release (when she was good and dead).

But Wiseman advised (ordered) no, that she must be kept alive, that she was valuable. That she—was, is, destined—to be a queen. Dimande scoffed. She could barely put on a dress properly.

"Let me help you."

Revulsion and suspicion fleeted over her face like bruising veins all bluer and tiny vessels a-shudder. Little fingers and little arms, she shoved him away (slapped his hand and wound her arms around herself).

Protection, _he almost replied_, was a figment of the mind of the imagination of wants & desires that never manifest. And she looked so beautiful and pitiful trying to fit into her mother's shoes.

"It's okay. I won't…hurt you."

And mutely (fake-demurely) she cast away her defenses. The citadel laid in ruins, and he strode over (in the semblance of a conquering—anti—hero) to rekindle weary hearts. And she had been lonely for so long.

And maybe it had been an unconscionable, conscientious _mistake_ but she didn't mind when he helped lace up the back of her dress. Where the silks parted, she felt his hand on her back moving down.

"You can't hurt me."

He stopped.

"Why is that?"

"You're weak."

In that split of a second, she looked exactly like her mother. Only more brutal, more burning, more authentic and golden than her mother's clashes of lightening and steel. The thundering gods issued him an ultimatum, and Dimande was smart enough to accept.

He untied the threads and watched the cloud-clothes tumble to the floor. In a heap, they felt like dead (weight). And from them, she emerged like a black dahlia (widow) ready to feast. Her eyes were luridly red and cunning.

A challenge.

He staked the bets.

**ii.**

When she slept, which was rare, she burrowed her head into the pillow (like she was trying to suffocate herself) and out of the feathery, sullen tangles she opened her mouth slightly and sighed. Softly.

Her eyes were cinched tight and pained. From above, Wiseman injected her with noxious fumes and dreams and told her exactly what to think. _No one loves you, no one ever did_. And soon, he had her chanting the phrase back in perfect intonation and mimicry.

But when Wiseman vanished (for other matters to attend, he assured the prince), Dimande would sit on her bed and stare. _Awkward_, Serenity would have laughed.

_No_. Just…

And the Rabbit flashed open her eyes, wide awake she hissed and clawed at him. He held her still, waited for her to turn stiff and white and pearly, and shook her shoulders hard.

"Do you think you are so great? Do you think that you are above the rest of us?"

"_Yes_."

"Then what is that mark on your head? It's just like mine. What makes you any different?"

She smoothed back her bangs and caressed his cheek (he steadied and refused to shiver, ice and biting and imprisoning).

"But mine is darker, blacker."

And they continued with their circle-talk.

-

They refrained from unnecessary, detrimental private moments. She was like a puppy following orders (and happily allowed Wiseman to sink his teeth and distort the world). And he had no use of her _frankly_.

Even in a body not her own, she was still a kid. And Dimande wasn't interested in playing nanny. And so, when she threw her tantrums, he sadistically left it to others to pick up the aftermath.

(While he dreamt of being in her mother's arms and asking why her daughter was such a brat.)

-

Her manners were vulgar and her movement ungraceful and dazed (dazzled). And soon, he thought he might have contracted vertigo from watching her emulate Serenity.

Fail, _fall_, fake.

Almost, he wanted to pity her.

**iii.**

She leaned heavily against him, perched precariously on the throne-arm. The slit in that slippery dress she insisted on wearing kept riding higher. He pretended not to notice (the headache grew worse and worse).

Tactful and sly, she would sneak her hand into his lap and tug at the thin cloth covering his thigh. And if this were a chance of war, she would have already won.

"Stop."

"What?"

_Bitch_. Batted her eyes innocent and sweet and seductive enough to make him crazy.

"Don't touch me."

"You mean," the hand crept higher, "like this?"

"Yes. Stop that _now_," _close your eyes—this is all a nightmare_.

"I don't think so."

Like a clean, swift blade cutting into skin-cleavage lines, she shifted her body and somehow (magically) ended up straddling him. Squirming (worming her way into his thoughts) she was already a plague.

Black and remorseless and unraveled in tufts and taffeta, her face was glassy and surreal. _Opportunist_, that was the key. And Dimande reached between her long, stick-grass legs and felt her back arching in surprise.

An _oppor-tu-nist_ would level the field even if he could not win. But Dimande had grander plans, he would succeed. So when she was the one to initiate a kiss (the act) he wondered what happened to the calculations.

_Down the rabbit hole, she went_. Too small for him to pass.

-

The world reverted to a chasm (a tunnel) and they are left in the crevice with nowhere to run. But even then, she could smile and gladly ensnare him to die (first).

* * *

**A/:N: **I might continue, what do you think?


End file.
